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They’ll know me by my scars,

And won’t have to ponder.

The tattoos and old sores,

Leaves no room for wonder.

They’ll say I’m no Jane Doe,

Approaching my stiff existence.

From the markings head to toe,

A story to be witnessed.

Arriving on the scene, yellow taped,

It’s a tragedy.

Stains and a sheet draped,

Another causality.

“That’s my daughter!” Screams my mother,

“She’s been so naive!”

“That’s my sister!” Shouts my brother,

“That’s her heart on her sleeve.”